


whatever a moon has always meant

by 75hearts



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (in background--this is set after finwe's death and discusses it), Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Grief, LaCE-compliant soulbonding, Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, Multi, Theology, given that one of them...... is dead......., he's still very much there though and him being Part Of The Relationship Too is: important, not sure if i should tag this 'poly' or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-11-02 13:04:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: “and Indis hath my love. How should I bear grudge against one who received what I rejected and cherished what I abandoned.” - Míriel Þerindë“It is unlawful to have two wives, but one may love two women, each differently, and without diminishing one love by another. Love of Indis did not drive out love of Miriel; so now pity for Miriel doth not lessen my heart’s care for Indis.” - Finwë Ñoldóran





	whatever a moon has always meant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isilloth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isilloth/gifts).

She hadn’t  _ intended  _ to avoid Indis. Even before the Halls, it was not uncommon for her to sit in her work, lost for hours or even days, forgetting to eat and sleep; it was this singlemindedness she had passed on to her child, and in time he had come to be more known for it than she, but his fire had been hers first, and her long years in the Halls--nothing to do but work, no need to eat or sleep--had not curtailed such tendencies. She had known Indis beside Cuivenen, had even loved her; she had no grudge save for the one she held, long past all reason, against herself.

Yet--it would have been reasonable for Indis to assume she had been avoiding her. And so she braced herself, forehead creasing in worry, as she opened the door. “Hello,” she said, as politely as she could. “You can come in, if you like? I am sorry I haven’t seen you recently, I’ve been working on a tapestry. Would you like anything?”

“Just to see you,” Indis said with a smile, “Although I would not say  _ no _ if you offered me a coffee.”

Míriel could not quite stop herself from smiling back. “Of course. I do have tea, too, if you’d rather? I make a point of keeping some around for visitors, I know that not everyone has the Ñoldoran palate.”

Indis  _ laughed _ . “No, no, it’s quite alright. I helped raise Fëanáro, I had no choice but to get accustomed to the taste.”

“I can imagine. Do come in, then, and I’ll get it started? I’m sorry for the mess, I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

“Once again,” Indis said, “I’m used to your son. I doubt any mess can faze me at this point.”

Míriel’s smile tightened and she took deep breaths as she fetched water, stirred the coffee in. It was easier, once her back was turned, to say what she knew needed to be said. She still rehearsed it in her head, once, twice, three times, until at last-- “I’m sorry,” she blurted out.

“For what?” Indis said, and Míriel suddenly had nothing to say. She had prepared for a million outcomes of this conversation; she had not prepared for the potentiality that Indis did not blame her. She was, after all, the obvious person to blame. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“For marrying him,” Míriel said, still staring at the water rather than Indis as she put the pot on heat. “For dying and leaving you my son. For coming back, and taking your husband away for a second time. For staying locked away in my house because I was too much of a coward to face you.”

“Oh,  _ Míriel _ ,” said Indis. “That’s not--did you think that was why I had come? To berate you, to demand an apology? You’ve been through enough pain, I have no desire to hurt you more.”

The water had begun to boil. Míriel took the water off the heat and poured the coffee in on autopilot, too thrown to do anything but cover it. “So that’s…  _ not _ why you’re here?”

“ _ No _ ,” Indis said, and crossed the room until she was beside Míriel, close enough that their hands brushed. “I came because I noticed that you hadn’t been out in a while, so I brought food, and candles, and books, and--mostly food, really, vegetables and fruit and flatbread and a slice of cake I thought you might like. It’s not healthy for you to stay in here. And I came because I wanted you to know that--I was sorry, too, and that whatever your son might believe, it was not--when I married Finwë, I thought you would stay dead forever. I didn’t intend to keep you in the Halls a day longer than you wanted to be there, and I’m glad you’re out now, even if it’s under--these circumstances--because I  _ missed  _ you. Finwë was my husband, but he was your husband also; and if I grieve our seperation, so must you. I have felt much pain; but so have you. It makes as much sense to say that you have hurt me as it does to say that I have hurt you, or that Finwë hurt us, or the Valar, or Eru Himself. Personally, I’ve never cared so much for distributing the blame as I have for taking care of the hurt.” She took Míriel’s hand in hers and kissed it, looking earnestly at her. “I came because you loved he who I loved, and because I remember loving you as well, beside Cuivenen; and because you are too alone, here, and have spent long enough in the Halls as to forget the importance of music and light and cheer.” She let go of Míriel’s hand with a smile, and began to pour the coffee for both of them. 

“You’re too kind for us,” Míriel murmured, looking now at the floor, her hair shading her eyes from view. 

“I am the correct amount of kind,” Indis said, laughing, “and if you all insist that it is too much, that is but more proof that you need more kindness in your life! But come, come, the coffee’s hot; do you put sugar in it, or milk?”

“Neither,” Míriel managed, a blush creeping to her cheeks. “I drink it black. But I can fetch some for you--?”

“I should have known; you  _ are  _ like your son. But I have never quite been able to stomach the drink on its own-- where do you keep your sugar?”

“I can get you the sugar! Just because you might think me kindness-deprived does not mean I do not know where my own sugar is!” But Míriel was smiling too as she dropped Indis’ hand to open a cabinet and fetch a bag of sugar and a spoon for it, and dragged an extra chair to her table. “Here, sit.”

“Alright,” Indis said, and spooned sugar into her coffee, and sung under her breath. Her voice was a lilting soprano, landing high on each note, and Míriel reached out her hand again (slowly, tentatively) as she began to realize how Finwë must have felt to look at her.

Indis took her hand immediately, the quiet music in the room stopping as Míriel looked up at her. It was the first time since the door had opened that Míriel met her eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for,” said Míriel, voice painfully earnest. “If you made Finwë feel a fraction of this--I would stay dead for all the lifetimes of the world, to give him but a day of this joy.”

“It is good, then,” Indis said, smiling and leaning forward, coffee entirely forgotten, “that you do not need to.”

Indis’ lips did not taste much like Finwë’s, but Míriel loved them all the same.

***

The marriage was--overwhelming, at first. It had been so long since either of them had been married to someone whose senses were not made dull and distant by the Halls of Mandos. ( _ Mandos _ , as in  _ mando  _ and  _ manda _ : safe-keeping, yes, but also custody. Also prison. Mandos: the halls of custody. Angamanda: iron hell. Two branches, but one root. And for all their kindness and comfort--it was hard, when Míriel thought of Finwë, not to sympathize with her son’s wild-eyed speeches.) They laughed and tumbled, delighting in Indis’ soft curls and Míriel’s thick, wiry hair, in sweet lips and soft rolls of skin and the bright patterns rearranging themselves in irises.

“I love you,” Míriel whispered, curled in on herself on top of the elaborate sheets that decorated her bed. “I’ve loved you for so  _ long _ . I--I left them, I abandoned my husband and my son, and you took them, you took care of them, you loved them for me, and I love you for it. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for that.”

Indis laughed and tipped Míriel’s chin up to look at her. “Just by being here, by loving me--I am not alone anymore. For now they have left me and you are loving me for them. A perfect symmetry. You need not do anything more. --Though, if you decide I need another kiss in thanks, I do not quite have it in me to say no.”

Her joy made Míriel smile, too, for a moment, before her eyes went sad again. “I wish he were here,” she whispered, and there was no doubt about what she was referring to.

“I know, love,” Indis said, and at last she was serious as well. “I know. So do I. But the Valar have spoken. And I do not--I cannot presume to know their workings. They have declared that a living man cannot have two living wives. It cannot be.”

“I know. I know. It is unlawful to have two wives. It is unlawful also to have a wife and a husband, or to have two husbands. All of it is unlawful. And my son has shown us what happens when we disobey the laws. I just--I want--I don’t  _ understand _ \--” And Míriel was crying, softly but intensely, hiding her face in Indis’ shoulder. It was bonier than her own, less comfortable, but with softer hair. “I love him and I love you and he loves me and you and you love me and him and--and when I was dead, that was one thing, I  _ wanted _ to be dead. He’s just-- _ tolerating it _ , because he loves us, because he’s selfless and wants us to live more than he cares about his own life, his own joy--and I wasn’t selfless enough to stay there--I could live a thousand lifetimes of the world and I would not deserve him.”

“Oh,  _ love _ ,” Indis said, gathering her arms around Míriel. “I’m so sorry. You’ve been carrying this the whole time?”

“Yes,” Míriel whispered. “I don’t--I don’t understand, what it would ruin to let us love each other. To let all of us love each other. I know I’m supposed to trust the Valar, we’ve seen what rebellion does, we have reason to believe that I in particular am likely to be dangerous--but I can’t help  _ feeling _ it. Can’t help wishing I could--could open the doors to Mandos and kiss my husband and hold my son again and--and maybe Fëanáro shouldn’t be alive, it hurts but I understand that. I don’t understand why you and I and Finwë cannot all be together.”

“You Noldor and your need to  _ understand  _ things,” Indis said, but her eyes were sad. “It doesn’t bother me the same way it bothers you, I think. I know that the rules are there for a good reason, and that’s enough for me. I can trust things I don’t understand. I--if it would help you--” She fell silent, her mouth parted just slightly.

“What?” Míriel asked after a pause, because she could never leave questions unanswered.

“I don’t know if it will hurt you more to say this right now,” said Indis softly. “But--alright. I wouldn’t mind dying, if it would help. I would miss you and Finwë, but, well--you have both already experienced that fate, have you not? And it was not so terrible. Not now, not even soon, it has been so short a time since I married you” --she punctuated this with a kiss and a wordless burst of love-- “but someday, maybe.” Her eyes were earnest and thoughtful.

More tears ran down Míriel’s face. “I never wanted anyone to die for me,” she said. “I don’t--first Finwë and now you--no. If it is anyone, it should be me. I made a promise, so many years ago, to Vairë, that I would stay dead forever; and I have broken it for--what? Your eyes, and my own greediness, to have them for myself and not for Finwë. And he is dead, and he will stay dead, because he cares more about my right to break a trust than I care about his life. I don’t… I don’t understand how you still love me.”

“And do you still love Fëanáro?” Indis asked, eyes soft. “Love is not something that can be broken by a list of faults. We are married, and we will be married until the breaking of Arda. I chose you, I chose that, knowing fully of everything you have done. I do not blame your soul for what it has endured, Míriel Þerindë. Rest, beloved.”

“I don’t want to rest, while Finwë is not free,” Míriel murmured, but her heart wasn’t in it. 

Indis stroked Míriel’s hair lightly, and Míriel shivered at the touch. “I’m sorry that the world is broken in this way,” said Indis. “I wish too that Finwë could be with us, I do. I love him as I love you; my heart aches that he is away, and my heart aches that you are hurting.” She bent down to kiss Míriel again. “Rest now. We can talk in the morning.”

It didn’t hurt this time, when Míriel closed her eyes. It felt... safe. She let her mind linger for a moment before drifting away, her body relaxing into Indis’ arms.

***

Míriel slept lightly and dreamt much; she always had.

_ “Come lay with me, my love,” Finwë said, and his voice was quiet and full of the casual adoring qualities it always took on when speaking to her. She was sitting at her loom, her feet working, the shuttle in her hand, a half-finished tapestry below. It was an abstract work--was a portrait of her son, smiling--was two women sitting at a table drinking coffee--was the stars at Cuivienen, as distorted and reflected as they had been in Finwë’s eyes. She put it down, stood up. She was talking very quickly, quickly enough that she couldn’t quite catch her own words, her hands moving like hummingbirds to keep pace. Finwe was soft and warm, muscled and solid. His lips were tan-brown, darker than her own, lighter than Indis’s. She sighed into them, coming apart; the bed felt as though it was made of air, her clothes disappearing along with his. And then she gasped and jumped at a touch on her back, spinning, her face twisting to an indignant expression-- but no, because it was only Indis, her slender dark fingers tracing lines down Míriel’s spine, her eyes sparkling and her lips turned up at the corners. “I missed you,” she said, and she was talking to Finwë but she was also talking to Míriel, to Finwë-and-Míriel, to the negative spaces between them where the mattress dipped and the sheets crumpled. “I missed you too,” Finwë said, and leaned up to kiss her on the forehead, and Míriel felt the lips on her own forehead as she tugged Indis’s arms that were thin like silk cord, as Indis fell laughingly onto the bed with them, as Indis kissed them both in turn. “I missed you too,” Indis said, and Míriel couldn’t tell who she was talking to and had the impression that it didn’t matter, and then Míriel couldn’t think about what either of them were saying except to moan, to lean into hands and tongue and two marriage bonds full to bursting with love, love, love… _

She woke up blushing to the sound of Indis in the kitchen, cooking and singing. The bed was simultaneously too hot and too cold; she kicked off the mess of covers that had tangled around her and sat up. Only a moment passed before she was burying her head in her hands to cry, trembling silently. Like a frightened animal torn between freezing and bolting.

She didn’t notice when Indis sat next to her on the bed, a precarious perch and a tilt of the head. She did notice when Indis wrapped one arm around her, the other pushing a coffee mug into Míriel’s trembling hands. It was warm between them. That helped; Indis’s fingers were cool, and Finwë’s had been warm, always warm. It took her a minute to sip at the coffee, a moment more to realize that it was black. How she liked it.

“Thank you,” she managed at last.

Indis’s eyes were wide and sad. “I recognize that look. You’re grieving. You’re wiser than you were before you died, but -- I don’t know that you’re  _ less  _ unhappy so much as you are  _ differently _ unhappy.”

Míriel just sighed, wiping at the tears still drying on her cheeks. “You’d know better than I would,” she muttered, taking a big gulp of the coffee and then coughing when it was too hot on her throat. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been…  _ not _ unhappy. But you -- you’re practically bursting with your joy, at just -- being alive. It makes me -- I don’t know what it makes me feel. It makes me want to kiss you for a hundred thousand years, and maybe by the end of it I’d know how to smile the way you do.”

“I don’t want you to smile like I do,” Indis said softly, gently, fingers carding through the tips of Míriel’s hair. “I want you to smile like  _ you _ do. I’m not going to lie and say that it will be easy. But I don’t think it will take a hundred thousand years.” She kissed Míriel, slowly, softly, tasting of sugared coffee and summer mornings. 

“I love you,” Míriel said.

“Unto death and past it,” Indis said. “Your wife, forever. To the breaking of the world. Though I suppose it’s already broken, isn’t it? The world was broken a long time ago. Yet…” She bit her lip. “Melkor devised cold so as to destroy the beauty of fountains, and instead he created snowflakes; he devised volcanoes to boil the waves, and it brought forth the morning mist that catches the light and leaves dew on the plants. Something that is broken can never again be the same as something that is untouched and whole; yet through its breaking and joining, it is made into something entirely new, and it is not any  _ less _ in its difference. I will not lie and tell you that the world is not broken. But through it, you might create something beautiful that otherwise would never have been.”

“Thank you,” Míriel repeated, and leaned against Indis to drink her coffee, and through the marriage bond she sent her love, strong and pure. “Sing for me?” 

And so Indis sang softly a song of her own devising, of grief and spiderwebs and meadows full of wildflowers and the way that a river can carve vast canyons out of the tallest mountains and the thousand joys and sorrows that are small enough to fit beneath a fingernail.

***

(Perhaps, in another world, wiser and kinder and less broken than ours, it does not go like this. In another world, Míriel wakes in Finwë’s arms with a kiss and a  _ Good morning, love _ , and they lay in bed combing each other's hair until the smell of bread baking is too sweet to bear, and they make coffee while the bread rises and Indis teases Finwë until he adds sugar to his own and hands Míriel an unsweetened cup with a wink, and Míriel’s smile is not a rare and delicate thing. Indis harmonizes with a songbird perched on the window and Finwë picks vegetables for lunch and Míriel’s smile is easy and free because joy is as easy as breathing, here, with two bright spots of love as certain as the ground and more steady.

We are not in that world. But look now-- Míriel’s smile is as wobbly and tentative as a baby taking its first steps, and the sunlight shines on Indis’s hair like a halo, and they are lonely and grieving and happy.)


End file.
